


Under My Skin

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 10:14:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3764314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: shoot au prompt: root and shaw live in a world where either the name or social security number of your soulmate is scarred into your skin or the first phrase your soulmate speaks to you is carved into your skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under My Skin

“Where are you going?”

Root stops, coffee-brown eyes set on the apartment door. It’s less than three feet away, yet it feels like three miles.

“You- you can’t  _leave_!” Root turns her head slowly, wavy, brown hair falling away from her shoulders as she faces him only half way, eyes on him, body still facing the door, needing to escape. In her vision, she sees him; floppy, black hair a disheveled mess, emerald eyes wide in hysteria, hands wringing through his hair and holding onto his neck, slightly pacing in the small hallway of his apartment. His white shirt is rumpled, blue jeans met by black work boots that click against the wooden floor. His jaw clenches and releases as he tries to put two and two together.

“This has been a good run, but…” Root’s somber voice trails off as she sees the flames of insanity die out in his eyes. Leaving something devastatingly hollow that hurts Root just to see. She holds firm, swallowing the sympathetic lump in her throat and maintaining the painful eye contact. “It just doesn’t work.”

“D-Doesn’t  _work_?!” He spits back, infuriated, eyes alighting once more, only now with a Hellish burning in them. He stops his pacing, rolling his neck in frustration before stalking forward to Root like a madman. “What do you- what do you  _mean_? It does, it-” He stops before her, and forces his forearm in front of her eyes yet again. And yet again, she sees the same markings. “They’re here,” he says, a whining plead coming to his voice as he drops his arm back to his side. His eyes are pitifully heartbroken.

* * *

 

_‘Watch your step’_. Root rolls the words across her tongue, tasting the memory as it floods back to her.

_‘Watch your step!’ She’d yelled out at a green-eyed man who was oblivious to the bike rack before him. Looking over at her, he continued forward, barreling into a red bicycle and toppling to the ground in a mess of wheels and hands. He had on a worn out business suit, short wavy hair in an attempted slick back, but small strands still kinking out. ‘Are you alright?’ Root asked, walking towards him, brow furrowed slightly in worry. He scrambled up, brushing off his hands and clumsily pulled the bicycle up with him. Pushing it back to the wrack, he wiped his hands down his pant fronts, an embarrassed smile coming to his charming face._

_‘Yeah, I uh, I’m fine,’ he replied, rubbing his right hand along the back of his neck sheepishly. 'But my arm burns. Must’ve scraped it or something.’ He has a New Jersey accent and a radiant smile. He rolls up the sleeve to inspect the burning, only to freeze with bewildered eyes. Root saw it at the same time, and her kind smile fell away instantly. The words. By some way of nature they were deep-set in a dark red brand. The scrawl was neat, letters curling at the edges in a graceful beauty. The one._

Root recalls the past two months since they’d met, how kind he was, how absolutely caring. But yet, as much as she tried and encouraged herself, something wasn’t right in it. There was a disconnection she felt within herself. She felt stagnant, held back by something no more than a lost hope to her. She’d wanted something to happen, to feel some sudden shift or click within herself to make it work. But she couldn’t lie to herself on this- he wasn’t it.

“I’m sorry, Jason,” she says solemnly, eyes dropping to the ground. “But it’s not-”

“Just give us  _one_  more month!” He begs, coming closer to her still, hands clasped before him. “ _Please_ , I- I…”

Root wants to reach out to him, comfort him, but know’s the only thing keeping her here is guilt. Guilt that the words never came.  _But it’s out of my control,_ she thinks, fingers brushing subconsciously along the smooth skin of her right arm. She opens her mouth to speak, but she has no words left for him. Shaking her head sadly, she takes the small distance to the door, opens it, and escapes his apartment, closing the door behind her quietly. Standing there a moment, she leans her temple against the door, hearing him mutter distraught words to himself before his footsteps recede back into the building.

Sighing, Root straightens her blouse front, then walks away from the building. _I need a shower_ , she thinks, rolling her neck a few times to relieve the tension.  _And some new scenery._

She takes the elevator down, then steps out to the warm, sunny New Jersey day. People meander by, lazily walking in the small city. She feels the sun warm on her face, and the air fresh in her lungs. Something doesn’t feel right about it. Everything in this place feels foreign, something urging her to escape this place. This feeling.  _New York_ , she thinks, walking down the street with a smile.  _New York sounds nice._

________\ If Your Number’s Up /________

The drive was a few hours, but after finding a parking garage that didn’t mind an extended stay, she took to the street. Instantly, she can smell the roasted chestnuts and corner vender pretzels, the loud hums of engines and honking horns filling her ears. People shrug past her, muttering in New York accents as they pass, and a smile comes to her face.  _Something feels… right about this place. Maybe because it’s home._

She starts down the street, pulling out her cell phone as she walks, dialing quickly.

“Hello?” A man’s voice comes over the line, and she smiles.

“Hey, Harry, you still live in the Big Apple?”

“Where other place is there to live?” He counters, an amiable tone in his voice. “Why?”

“Just making sure I have somewhere to crash tonight,” she replies with an amused smirk, rounding the corner, bathed at once by the icy shadow of a sky scraper. She looks up at it in awe, not being in the city in years. Everything seems so… large.

“Are you saying you’re in the city?” He asks, a pleasure in his voice met with an open invitation. Root pulls her light, black jacket up higher on her neck before answering.

“For a little. Miss me?”

“Did you bring your taser?” He asks, a hint of concern in his voice, and she sighs, rolling her eyes.

“Yes, Harold. But you don’t need to protect me- I can take care of myself.”

“Ah, yes,” he replies apologetically. “So, when will you be over?” She continues to walk once more, the chill leaving her bones as she escapes the shadow.

“After I’m done sight seeing. A lot’s changed since I last visited.”

“I- I have a job, Miss. Groves. There isn’t a spare key for-”

“I must have been away  _too_  long,” Root cuts him off, deep smirk on her face. “You’re forgetting how good I am at making locks sing.”

From the background, there is the sound of footsteps in a large space, and a chair turning. “Will you review my software analysis essay, Professor Finch?” A young voice asks, and Harold sighs.

“I’ve be there around seven. Just- please-  _don’t_  break anything.” Root lets out a small laugh, and Harold hangs up. Looking around, she sees the massive buildings, each bringing back a small portion of her memories of New York. Of computer programing, hacking, and many wonderful conversations over coffee with Harold Finch- her best friend since high school. Walking aimlessly, she finds herself before a subway entrance, and takes the stairs down. She walks past graffiti-ridden maps and many citizens resurfacing to the sun. Walking through the counter, she pays, and a small subway ticket spits out for her. _Now I just need some place to go._

Turning to the nearest car, she sees the small, lit up screen before her, telling their next destination: Rockefeller Center. The doors slide shut behind her, and she knows it is only a matter of seconds before she is uprooted from her feet by the jerking start of the car. All around, the handrails are filled to burst, but she just makes out one open seat. She dashes over quickly, going to sit.

The train car lurches forward. She stumbles back, head smacking the hard window at the side of the car, sinking into a seat.  _But wait…_  the seat is warm, and soft, and breathing down her neck. Eyes wide, she throws herself into her intended spot, then looks over to the person, already rattling off an apology.

“I didn’t mean to sit on you,” she says, eyes coming to the passenger. She stops then, every word she had planned out to say disappearing from her mind entirely.

To her right is a woman with hair black as a raven tied back in a pony tail, eyes dark as night with the subway’s lights like stars in them. They are frosted stone, showing no emotion, just that endless night sky. Her nose is narrow, met by soft pink lips held firmly in place, jaw set tightly. Her arms are crossed under a black trench coat, and she sits with a slight slouch, dark combat boots crossed over each other. Root’s line of sight draws back to this woman’s eyes, getting lost in them completely. The woman looks away without a word, shifting her arms in discomfort and annoyance, and she sits up a little straighter, turning her head away from Root entirely.

Still, Root takes in every detail of this person at her side, from her clothes to her hair- anything she can see- not wanting to forget her.  _But why?_  She asks herself, brow furrowing in thought as she tries in vain to pry her eyes away. The rest of the journey is made in silence, then the train car stops, doors sliding open.

Instantly, the woman stands. She flows with a precise grace, never once choppy, but too quick to be fluid. In the blink of an eye, she’s gone, and Root jumps to her feet, eyes searching.  _She’s gone_. Root feels her heart sag, and wonders once more why she feels so strange. This weird feeling of elation and fear coupled with longing and anticipation- it is all new to her.

Sticking her hands in her jacket pockets, she walks out, handing in her ticket stub to a machine who eats it hungrily, and a minute later she is outside, city air lapping at her cheeks.

Root walks down the crowded path leading to the building, stopping to admire the large scale artwork littered throughout the small street. She comes to a smaller shoppe with a display in the window and walks over to it, smile on her face. It is a scaled-down map of New York City devised entirely of legos. Every building and color is exact, all leading to the Rockefeller Center. There are tiny lego people inside, some walking dogs, others in cars, and one staring straight back at Root, as if studying her the same way she studies them. Looking up, there is a glare on the window, and her breath catches at the reflection.  _The woman from the subway._  She’s standing at the other side of the street, eyes stone, set on Root as she watches her. Root turns around, vision blocked for less than a second by a man in a top hat. Looking around him quickly, she finds that the woman is again gone without a trace.  _Maybe it was in my head?_  She wonders, walking away from the display slowly, meandering without too much of an idea where to go. She thinks briefly of searching for this woman, but deems it hopeless in the end. _I wonder if that old electronics store is still around here somewhere._

_____________\ We’ll Find You /____________

She was growing rather paranoid. It seemed every time she looked back there was the last wisps of a ponytail, or the trailing end of a trench coat. She’d stopped at a corner after rounding it, waiting to see if her suspicions were correct, only to find no one of that description passing by, let alone the one person she’s seeking out.

Peeking back again, she sees a face this time.  _Her face_. The flutter in her heart is drowned out my an even larger worry. _Why is she following me?_  Root lets her hand slide out of her jacket pocket, brushing against the cold metal of her taser, and she lets out the smallest sigh of relief. Then, an idea emerges before her eyes. She looks at the busy street, mobs of people crossing at once, endless cars splitting even the most tight knit groups apart.  _So easy to get lost in- so easy to disappear. And once out of her sight, I can double around, follow her instead_ , Root decides. She walks a little further, casually, then makes an impulsive lurch to the street, ready to dart across and melt into the city’s architecture. However, just as she does, the light turns green.

Before she knows it, a horn is blaring at her, a yellow taxi-cab headed straight for her. The man’s face is livid, not fixing his course for the president, let alone her. She presses herself back to the curb as fast as she can, yet it’s not fast enough.

In a matter of seconds, she can feel over three tons on her foot, all crushing down, shattering every intricate bone. Her eyes widen in pain, and the weight goes away, just to come back once more with the back wheel, each toe feeling like a branch snapped from the tree. She grits her teeth together in agony, face going sheet white, but she says nothing- no screaming or crying out in pain. She just stands there at the edge of the road, a feeling of shock washing over her, making her nauseous.

A hand wraps around her upper arm, pulling her away as more cars head across the street. With every dazed step she stumbles through, she can feel the sharp antagonizing pain shoot through her foot and all the way up her leg, making her teeth grind against each other. A second later, she is pushed down into a bench, back cold against the deserted bus stop. Like getting struck with lightning, every sense zaps back into her, the clouds over her eyes gone, letting her think clearly once more, letting her feel the absolute gravity of the pain. A grunt escapes her lips as she feels the injured foot shifting, yet she knows she’s not moving it. Looking down, she sees two foreign hands ripping off a destroyed shoe, head down with a black-haired pony tail falling over one shoulder.

Root feels the icy chill of the shade touch her foot, sock coming off in this person’s grasp. She slings off a black backpack, rummaging through it, and Root steals a look down. The sight is enough to make her breakfast come back to her throat. Limp and formless like a melted ice pack, already purple and black with bruising, smallest toe off at an odd angle. She brings a hand to her mouth, looking back up at this mystery woman to keep her eyes off of the injury. The woman looks up at her, dark eyes just as expressionless as they were before, lips still pressed together and jaw still set with a seemingly ever present anger. Root sees a flicker of annoyance in the woman’s eyes, and her jaw releases its tense hold, her eyes coming back to Root’s foot with a few medical objects in each hand.

“So, you’re a doctor?” Root asks, trying to keep the queasiness from her voice as she talks to this stranger.

She shrugs her shoulders, not looking up.

“I, uh, thanks,” Root says nearly sheepish, a small blush coloring her cheeks. She feels a pressure on her foot, and the pain is instantly brought down to a dull hurt. “I’m Root,” she says, sticking out a hand. The woman looks from her to it and back, then returns her eyes to her work. Root’s kind smile falters, and she finds herself nervous, unsure what else to say, not able to bear the silence. “So… what’s your name?”

The woman finishes wrapping Root’s foot before meeting her eyes once more.

“Sameen Shaw.” Her voice hits Root with force, like a punch to the face and a kick in the ribs, loosing her breath and seeing stars at once. She’d never felt anything more wonderful.

“Do- do I call you Doctor Shaw?” Root asks, fumbling over the words, a pleasure rumbling through her as the last leaves her mouth. Shaw.

“Don’t,” she replies simply, voice devastatingly neutral. She begins to rummage through her pack once more, putting some of its contents away, while snagging others.

“Well, what do your friends call you?”

“I don’t  _have_  friends,” Shaw replies, alarming Root greatly. However, she can’t seem to focus on the feeling entirely, for there is an unnatural heat on her arm.  _Did it hit the car?_ She wonders, looking down at the jacket, but not seeing any signs of damage. She looks back to Shaw, who’s already watching her. Seeing Root’s taken aback gaze, she gives her a small smirk, instantly sending an army of butterflies to Root’s heart. “My neighbor John calls me Shaw.”

“What should  _I_ call you?” Root asks, dumbstruck.

“Whatever you want,” Shaw replies with a mild shrug of the shoulders, then smirks at Root once more. “Just not doctor.”

“Can I ask why not? You seem really trained in the practice.”

“That’s because I am,” Shaw informs her with a tired sigh, taking Root’s foot up in her hand once more. In one swift movement, she pops the toe back into place- Root having to stifle a shout. “Got kicked out today, actually.”

“Of  _school_?” Root asks, bewildered. _How does someone who takes people off the street to help them get kicked out?_

“Of the practice,” Shaw corrects, the hint of a laugh in her words. “Guess caring whether someone lives or dies on the operating table was a question I  _missed_  on the review guide of 'Good Doctor 101.’”

“You don’t care if somebody lives or dies?” Root asks, itching at her arm, heat growing nearly unbearable. Rolling up her sleeve, her breath sticks in her throat, eyes popping from their sockets.

Like snakes, a thin scroll bubbles up on her skin, pushing it out like a scar as it travels words she can’t quite read. Little snakes pulling her skin up to burrow underneath, causing an intense heat to emerge from them. They grow larger all the way across the middle of her inner forearm- then the first snake breaks free. Root has to bite her lip against the searing pain as the pushed up skin smolders away, as if lit on fire, leaving behind a deep red burn. Like the wick to a fire cracker, each line starts at the top, working its way around in loops and curls, until two words show themselves in a soothing font.

 _'Sameen Shaw.’ The first words she ever said to me_.

Root’s head snaps up instantly to Shaw, who is putting things away in her pack, not looking Root’s way. Root yanks her sleeve down, cheeks red hot and mind reeling.

“Didn’t see why it mattered,” Shaw explains in a solemn voice, pushing up from the ground, her full attention on Root now. “People live. People die. Why should I care if it’s at my hands or someone else’s?” Root takes in the statement, thinking it over, thinking how if someone died at her hands she wouldn’t like it, but it wouldn’t lose her sleep at night either. She decides she’d rather avoid it when possible, and thankful she’s avoided it this far.

“You wouldn’t even have a  _little_  remorse?” Root asks, not at all rude, just curious. Shaw’s mouth pulls up in a toothy, lopsided smile that makes Root’s heart stop.

“I’m a sociopath; remorse has never been on the agenda.”

 _A sociopath?_  The words are a needle, and they deflate Root entirely.  _A sociopath, incapable of love._ Her hand brushes along her right forearm subconsciously, and she feels a whole different pain instilled in her now, this one hurting far worse than any broken bone. She thinks of Jason- the shaggy-haired accountant she left behind- and wonders if this is how he felt. This agonizing heart break as everything in the world becomes a darker shade of gray, words no longer seeming to have meaning at all.

“You okay?” Shaw’s voice cuts into Root’s devastating thoughts, and she can almost swear there is a concern in it.  _But there can’t be, right?_

“Uh, yeah,” Root responds, trying desperately to keep the melancholy tone out of her voice. “Can I ask you something?” Shaw’s eyes are agreeable, and she takes a seat beside Root. Their arms brush, and Root instantly feels a tingle down her spine. “Why did you… why did you help me then? If it doesn’t matter to you really?” Shaw looks at her a moment, inspecting her face with unrevealing eyes before answering.

“Dunno,” she says at last, deflective, looking straight ahead at the cars whizzing by.

“And you were following me,” Root recalls, suddenly urgent to know more.

“No, I wasn’t.” Root narrows her eyes, giving Shaw a disapproving glare. “You looked lost,” Shaw grumbles angrily, feeling Root’s stare on the side of her face. “Just making sure you weren’t.” Root is puzzled by the answer, not sure how this conversation goes together.  _A compassionate sociopath?_

“Well, I’m not,” Root answers her truthfully. “Just looking for some place to go.”

“Into oncoming traffic probably wasn’t your best option,” Shaw wise cracks, and Root can’t help but smile.

“What would  _you_  do if an attractive stranger was following you?” Root counters, and she sees Shaw’s ears redden at the words. Root can barely suppress a smug smile. Shaw looks as if she’s about to say something snappy in response, yet bites her tongue.

“Probably break their neck.” Root raises her eyebrows, and Shaw gives her a quick look over before meeting her eyes once more. “But maybe not.” Root can feel her heart pounding, and hopes Shaw can’t hear it. She still feels that dread from before, tugging at her, but it is more distant somehow. It feels as if being around her makes the pain of being without her go away some how. Shaw stands, rubbing her palms along the sides of her black jeans before bending over to pick up her bag. Root comes to a stand, foot touching the cold ground, and she recoils it quickly. Leaning over, she pulls her sock back on gingerly, then proceeds at a lousy attempt of fitting the ruined shoe back to her foot. She starts to lose her balance, hands darting out to the side to try and stabilize her, and there is suddenly a hand on either side of her waist. Root feels her heart leap into her throat, and she wonders if it is going to come out. She swallows shakily, then quickly yanks the shoe back on, ignoring the pain entirely. Her hips are electrically charged with the mere touch, and she feels light headed.

  
“Thanks.”

“You need ice,” Shaw tells her, serious. “And a drink.”

_________\ Under My Skin /_________

By six thirty Root has a disposable ice packet on her foot and a seat at a local bar. Outside, the weather becomes Hellishly hot, odd for how late it is at night. Shaw sips on her third bourbon, and Root lets the liquid in her second slide around in a whirlpool as she rolls the glass around with her wrist. The music is light, and the people moderately quiet, making it a prime time for conversation. And how they talked, Root mostly, about anything relevant. She mentioned her previous residence in New York, moving to New Jersey only a few years ago; Harold and their humorous adventures throughout the years. In turn, Shaw divulged small snit-bits of her life as a marine and her days in medical school.

“So  _you’re_  telling  _me_  you took down your fight instructor on your  _first_  day?” Root asks with a laugh, happy smile on her face for the majority of the night. Shaw gives her a half smile, eyes enjoying Root’s interest. “Wish I knew how to fight like that.”

“I’ll have to teach you some time,” Shaw responds casually, downing the rest of her glass. Root can feel her cheeks heating up.

“I think I’d like that,” Root responds, leaning in with a small smirk playing on her face. The front door opens, and a wild jungle of college students barge in, squawking an screeching, pushing and shoving one another as they all cram in. Shaw pushes her glass back to the center of the bar, eyes on Root.

“You wanna get out of here?” Root’s jaw unhinges at the words, falling open with a smile in its corners. Her eyes widen slightly, lighting. Shaw looks at her, looks through her to the gears in her mind, and rolls her eyes. “Because it’s  _crowded_ , Root.” Root closes her mouth, sitting back straight in the stool, eyes calming slightly. She gives a small, half smile, sliding onto her feet. She winces as the injured one hits the ground, but finds it is feeling tremendously better. They pay quickly, then head out, discarding the ice pack on their way.

Instantly, they are hit with desert heat and rain forest humidity, making it sickening to breath. Root can feel sweat starting to bead on her neck almost instantly, wondering where this bizarre weather could come from.

At her side, Shaw strips off her jacket, revealing a black, long sleeve shirt. Root can feel the heat bearing its weight heavily on her, but dares not remove her jacket, knowing if she does, her tee-shirt will do nothing to conceal the words.  _Her words._

“Aren’t you hot?” Shaw asks, as if reading Root’s thoughts. Root shakes her head too quickly, and a suspicion arrises in Shaw’s eyes. They demand to know what she’s hiding, and threaten that they will find out at any expense. Shaw’s eyes flicker to Root arms and back, and with cheetah speed she grabs Root’s right arm.  _No, this can’t be happening._

Before she knows what she’s doing, Root feels a metallic rectangle in her left hand. A second later, it connects with Shaw’s jugular, and after that, a blue wave of light spits out. Shaw drops her hold on the jacket sleeve, instantly crumpling to the ground.  _Shit._

Root’s eyes open in surprise, and she looks to the taser in her hand. Frantically, she stuffs it back into her pocket, then reaches down, grabbing Shaw under the arms and dragging her up. Locking her hands in each other, Root begins to pull her down the block, knowing Harold’s apartment is just at the end. Getting to it, she backs into the door, letting it push open. She hears it hit Shaw in the side, in the leg, in the ankle. Root’s foot is screaming, but she can barely hear it over the worry in her head. Every time she bumps Shaw into something, she gives a varying 'oops’ or 'sorry.’

“May I uh,  _help_  you ma'am?” The lobby clerk asks, and Root freezes, thick strand of hair in her eyes as she looks to him. She tries to give him an assuring smile, unsure how well it turned out.

“No, thank you. We’re here visiting a friend, and  _someone_ ,” she gestures to Shaw by raising her limp form up slightly, “had a little too much to drink.” He nods, eyeing them suspiciously, but says no more. Root hits the elevator button with her shoulder, then proceeds to haul Shaw in with her. The doors close, and they ascend.

“What… the…  _Hell_ …” Shaw says in a strained voice, body still jolted from the electric current.

“I didn’t mean to it just happened!” Root explodes, fearing she’s blown it. The doors open and she pulls Shaw out, heading towards the third door on the left. “But I’m taking you to my friend’s apartment. You can rest, and you’ll be all right.”

“I’d.. kill you… if I… didn’t… act-ually l..ike you so… much.” There is an angered venom in the words, but Root can’t help the swell of her heart at the words.

“It’s gonna be fine, Sam,” Root tells her, coming to the door. “Just let me grab a b-” Root reaches to her pocket for a bobby-pin, not at all thinking of what would happen if she let go of Shaw. Shaw drops like a dead weight to the ground, her head making a heavy thud. Root’s eyes widen and she works quickly, all the while Shaw stares at her with murder in her eyes, willing her arms to move so she can at least make a decent threat.  _A little wringing of the neck never hurt anyone…_

The door swings open, and Root grabs both of Shaw’s hands, dragging her across the floor and into the living room. Flicking on a light, she smiles, seeing Bear sitting on the couch, eyes on her.

“ _Hi, Bear_!” Root gives him an overly affectionate greeting, and he bounds over to her. She pets him kindly before standing back up, looking down at Shaw. In the midsts of pulling her arms, Shaw’s sleeves had fallen to the elbows, and Root could distinctly make out a burned-in print on Shaw’s right arm. Tilting her head to read it right side up, a robust smile breaks out onto her face, eyes igniting wildly with joy.

_'I didn’t mean to sit on you’. Guess that explains why she was really tailing me. And why she helped me earlier._

From behind, Root hears footsteps, and turns to see Harold. He stands, eyes growing wider each second as he takes in the scene. A woman on the floor with a red, taser welt on her neck, Root standing over her with a delighted smile. Harold closes his eyes tight, trying to collect his thoughts. He opens them, and sees that the image before him hadn’t disappeared. Shaking his head slightly, he takes the hat from off his head, hanging it on the wall beside him.

“I see you haven’t changed much, Miss. Groves.”


End file.
